On the other side, Janice led the assault on another oared ship that had been surrounded.
After nearly two months of training, the timidity in her eyes had been replaced by firm resolve.
The Flame Knight's transformation had given her strength and reflexes beyond those of ordinary men.
Though her swordsmanship was nowhere near her sister's refined mastery, her speed and raw power more than made up for it.
Wearing fitted Valyrian steel light armor, she gripped her sword tightly. Her young face was tense, but there was no trace of retreat.
Several pirates, seeing her youth and beauty, and that she charged at the front, sneered with contempt and lunged at her with jeers.
"Flirting with death!" Janice silently recalled her sister's teachings. Moving with the grace of a cat, she sidestepped a slashing short sword and drove her steel blade upward in a swift, vicious strike.
"Aaah!" The leading pirate screamed, clutching his wrist as his severed hand and sword fell to the deck, blood spraying everywhere.
Another pirate attacked from the side. Janice couldn't turn in time, so she dropped low and unleashed a sweeping kick. Fueled by the strength of the Flame Knight, her leg cracked like a steel whip.
"Snap!" Bone gave way, and the pirate's shin shattered. He collapsed, rolling on the deck with a shriek.
A third pirate swung an axe down at her. Instead of retreating, Janice stepped in, her sword darting like a viper to stab directly into his elbow joint.
His arm went numb, the axe slipped from his grasp, and Janice followed with a powerful kick that sent him sprawling.
Whenever the pirates tried to surround her, she swiftly retreated back into the tight formation of the Dragon Soul Guards behind her.
With their silent protection and ruthless finishing strikes, Janice fought like a young dragon testing its claws for the first time—still green, but already sharp enough to draw blood.
The resistance on the second oared ship collapsed quickly.
On the remaining two ships, the pirates watched their comrades butchered like lambs. Faced with Jaelena's inhuman strength and the Dragon Soul Guards' cold, efficient slaughter, terror hollowed them out.
The pirate captain, seeing their escape cut off by the galleons and the boarding fight turn into a one-sided massacre, dropped his weapon without hesitation. Raising both hands, he screamed, "We surrender! We surrender! Stop the killing!"
...
On the merchant ship's deck, the cries and clash of distant battle became little more than background noise.
Lo Quen's eyes stayed locked on the burly man before him.
The pirates had been cut down by Jaelena and the others as easily as chopping melons. Now, the only thing left was to make this defiant man—who had dared ram his fleet with such arrogance—pay the price.
At the same time, this fight would be the perfect whetstone to test his command of power and the progress of his martial skill.
Lo Quen let out a sharp cry. The deck beneath his feet seemed to shudder as his body shot forward like an arrow from the string. His rune-etched Valyrian steel sword came down in a brutal arc, aimed straight for the man's skull.
The man's pupils contracted sharply.
That speed, that strength—far beyond his expectations.
He dared not hesitate. Instincts honed by years of life-and-death struggle snapped into action. His body slid aside in a flawless sidestep, his wrist flicking as his longsword thrust with deadly precision at the tendons of Lo Quen's sword hand.
Strike where he must defend, force him to break his attack. It was the move of a veteran who had clawed his way through countless battles.
Lo Quen felt a flicker of admiration, his suspicion about the man's identity sharpening further.
He wrenched back his slash, twisting his wrist with serpent-like agility. His Valyrian steel sword carved a sharp arc, striking the man's blade aside with a piercing clang.
The rebound jolted through the man's arm, numbing his grip. He staggered back three steps before he steadied himself, his eyes now wide with shock.
This boy's strength was beyond human.
Lo Quen pressed the attack without pause, his sword surging forward in relentless waves.
He no longer relied solely on brute force, but began weaving in the refined swordwork Jaelena had taught him, blending it with his raw power.
The Valyrian steel blade whirled in his hands, a storm of deadly steel. The fusion of speed and strength made every strike scream with death.
The burly man, in turn, brought his lifetime of battle-hardened skill to bear.
Knowing he was outmatched in strength, he avoided clashing directly, instead using precise footwork and deflection. Like a rock in storming seas, he endured.
He moved with agility, slipping past Lo Quen's crushing blows at the last instant.
His sword stuck close, guiding or redirecting. Using the blade's spine, he turned aside the force of the strikes, and in the briefest gaps between Lo Quen's transitions, he launched lightning-fast counters, each aimed at vital points. Lo Quen was forced to guard again and again.
His swordplay was stripped of flourish—simple, ruthless, and lethal. It was the art of survival, carved out of mountains of corpses and seas of blood.
Clang! Clang! Clang! Clang! Clang!
The sharp, rapid clash of steel rang out across the merchant ship's deck, sparks flying with each strike.
The two fighters moved like lightning, swordlight weaving around them. In moments, they had already traded dozens of fierce blows.
Lo Quen's strength and speed gave him a crushing advantage, yet the man's seasoned experience and razor-sharp precision let him seize narrow openings again and again. More than once, he nearly punished the tiny lapses in Lo Quen's control, forced by his surging power, with deadly counters.
The man's sheer martial skill and depth of battle experience left Lo Quen both increasingly awed—and increasingly exhilarated—as the fight raged on.
He felt it—under the crushing intensity of battle, his control over his surging strength, his grasp of swordplay and its integration, were sharpening at a pace he had never known before.
At last, after one more violent clash of steel, Lo Quen caught it: the barest hesitation in the burly man's movements, a flaw born of exhaustion.
His eyes flashed. Abandoning flourish, he poured every ounce of strength into his arms.
The Valyrian steel sword roared like a dragon breaking its chains, ripping through the air with unstoppable force, aimed square at the man's chest.
The man's face drained of color. He felt death rushing toward him.
His chestplate might as well have been parchment before Valyrian steel.
Instinct drove him to raise his blade across his body, desperate to catch the blow.
But—
CRACK!
The sound of shattering steel ripped the air.
The longsword that had carried him through a lifetime of battles snapped clean in two the instant it met Lo Quen's blade.
The black edge slowed only for a heartbeat, still driving forward with irresistible sharpness, plunging straight for his heart.
Life on a knife's edge.
The man's survival instincts exploded like a cornered beast. He hurled himself backward, spine arched to its limit, heels slamming against the deck with all his might, flinging his bulk away as though yanked by some unseen force.
Rip!
The swordpoint ripped through his armor and carved a deep gash across the hard muscle of his chest.
Hot blood sprayed like a fountain, drenching his torn armor and spattering the deck beneath his feet.
"Urgh!" The man grunted in pain, stumbling back seven, eight steps before slamming into the railing with a bone-jarring crash.
Agony twisted his face, veins bulging across his forehead, sweat pouring as his breath rasped like a bellows.
The broken sword sagged uselessly in his grip, blood dripping down the hilt.
Lo Quen did not follow. With a flick of his wrist, his bloodied Valyrian steel sword tilted downward, its tip dripping scarlet onto the deck.
His gaze was cold as winter, fixed on his trembling, blood-soaked foe. His voice cut like the wind off the Wall.
"Now... do I have the right to know your name? Or are the warriors of Westeros all nameless men?"
The words struck home.
The man stared at Lo Quen's young face, then dropped his eyes to the wound pouring blood across his chest, to the broken blade at his feet—the weapon that had borne his life's battles, now in ruins.
Shock faded, replaced by a storm of emotions.
Bitterness. Resignation. Defeat. And, buried within, the faint relief of meeting an equal at last.
He drew in a deep breath, bracing against the pain. With all the strength left in him, he straightened his massive frame, scarred and battered like a wounded bear.
Though his skin had gone pale from blood loss, the pride of the North, the pride of House Mormont, flared again in his shadowed eyes like a fire rekindled.
"Jorah Mormont."
The voice was low, rough, yet steady. "Once Lord of Bear Island. Now an exiled knight."
He met Lo Quen's gaze without flinching, speaking each word with weight.
"You win, boy."
...
[Upto 50 chapters ahead for now]
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